


i lost a world the other day

by subsequence



Category: GOT7, JJ Project
Genre: Angst, M/M, Red String of Fate, Unhappy Ending, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-12 07:43:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20560703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subsequence/pseuds/subsequence
Summary: A lot of days, the red string tied around his pinky is the only thing that keeps Jinyoung sane.





	i lost a world the other day

A lot of days, the red string tied around his pinky is the only thing that keeps Jinyoung sane.

He knows it's not healthy. He knows, logically speaking, that there's so much more to live for than the person at the other end of the string.

Sometimes it's hard to really feel that way though. On the days when he turns his music up loud enough to drill into his skull (but not loud enough to touch the ache in his chest, in his heart), he can’t stop himself from clinging to the idea that someone, somewhere, might be able to make the pain stop, might be able to stop the gears in his head from grinding and running until his mind is alight and burning, burning, burning.

Someone, somewhere, must love him, even if he can’t love himself.

Every breath, every step, every day brings him closer. To what, he isn’t sure just yet. He just knows it has to be better than what he has now.

It has to be.

(Jinyoung is sure of it.)

* * *

It feels like everyone around him has found their someone. Jinyoung runs his thumb over the knot on his pinky and reminds himself that it’s a promise, and sometimes promises take time.

(Jinyoung begins to doubt.)

* * *

Some days now, when Jinyoung’s sitting in his dorm, the string will tug a bit, as if whispering to him, “It’s almost time.” He always jumps out of his bed, swings the door open, and dashes into the hallway, looking frantically in both directions. His roommate has gotten good at ignoring his outbursts and always lets him back in when he unfailingly forgets his key on his desk in his haste.

“Don’t rush it, Jinyoung-ah,” Jackson always tells him. “It’ll happen when it’s meant to happen.”

“Easy for you to say,” Jinyoung pouts, flopping back onto his bed. “You and Youngji ran into each other on the first day of orientation. Literally.”

Jackson grins. “I told you getting a moped would make me a hit with the ladies.”

Jinyoung squints at him. “A hit. Seriously.”

“Youngji appreciates my sense of humor.”

“Does she?”

“Of course she does,” Jackson replies. “One time I told her a joke and she even threatened me with death by stiletto.” He sighs and twirls in his desk chair. “And that’s how I know she’s my soulmate. There’s no way I’d rather go.”

“Okay, you and your weird high heel fetish can stop advising me on my love life.”

“Don’t even talk to me about fetishes. I’m your roommate, I’ve seen some shit.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Jinyoung sputters. Jackson laughs for a moment before the sound trails off.

“Hey, Jinyoung-ah?” Jackson’s voice is soft. He’s not joking anymore. Jinyoung’s chest clenches at the implications of that. “If it’s tugging, that means they’re getting closer.”

“I know.”

Jackson hesitates before adding, “I’m sure they’ll love you a lot.”

“Yeah.” Jinyoung turns on his bed to face the wall. “I hope so.”

(Jinyoung begins to hope again.)

* * *

There’s a boy in his music theory class whose string is colorless and dead. They call him a widower even though he’d never met his soulmate. His name is Youngjae, and he shines like the sun despite the cloudy gray string around his finger.

When he sees Youngjae, Jinyoung toys with his string and tries to push down the gratitude that wells up in him, gratitude that he isn’t Youngjae, that he will never know Youngjae’s pain.

(Jinyoung prays every night that he will never be Youngjae.)

* * *

There’s a sense of rising action in Jinyoung’s life. He’s gotten a job, he’s written a collection of songs that could almost be an EP, he’s bought a car; as far as he’s concerned, he’s on his way up.

Jinyoung’s taken enough statistics. He’s a smart guy. He should understand regression toward the mean. He should know that everything is about to come crashing down.

(Jinyoung still recklessly hopes.)

* * *

He’s locked up in their ensuite bathroom, engaging in today’s battle in the never-ending war against his facial hair, when it happens.

It’s so ordinary. A knock at the door, a deep, new voice lilting upward in a question, footsteps tracking into the room.

As they cross the threshold, Jinyoung feels a pull at his hand and looks down to see the string tauter and more vibrant than it’s ever been. His heart leaps into his throat and he nicks his face with his razor.

His soulmate is on the other side of that door.

He’s toweling the cream recklessly from his face, reaching for the handle when he catches the words drifting through the wood.

_Soulmate. Found someone else. Love him._

_Scissors._

Jinyoung stands frozen as he hears Jackson, always a good neighbor, cheerily comply. Hears a drawer open. Hears a murmured thanks as his best friend unknowingly hands over the blade that will sever Jinyoung from the hope he’s been clinging to all his life. Hears Jackson’s chipper “no problem.”

He thinks it should hurt more when his soulmate cuts their string.

He watches wordlessly as it goes gray and falls almost weightlessly against the sink. Blood from where he’d nicked himself with the razor drips onto it, staining it red again for just a moment. He stares at it briefly before rinsing it thoroughly under the faucet.

He cleans his cut. Washes his hands. Takes a breath.

Life will go on.

(Jinyoung doesn’t hope anymore.)

* * *

He sees them some weeks later.

First, he recognizes the voice from that day—deep, warm, a little slurred; the kind of voice meant for late Friday nights and lazy Sunday mornings; the kind of voice you’d get a cat with just to see the two of them curled up together on the couch and listen to the two of them purr in their own ways; the kind of voice that would make waking up in the morning less of a challenge and more of a treat.

It takes Jinyoung a moment to realize that the voice belongs to the broad man sitting at a table a few feet away. It takes him another moment to see the arm wrapped around Youngjae.

They seem happy.

The man’s features don’t seem predisposed to smiling, but whenever Youngjae speaks, he goes soft around the eyes and the corners of his lips lift. His free hand rests on top of Youngjae’s, their two gray strings coiled up side by side, falling together as if carefully woven.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been standing there, doesn’t know how long it takes for anyone to notice him, but eventually Youngjae’s eyes light on him. Youngjae’s smile is blinding as he waves Jinyoung over; at least, that’s the reason Jinyoung gives himself for the burning in his eyes.

“Jinyoung!” Youngjae’s voice is so bright, so friendly, so unlike Jinyoung’s. “Have you met my boyfriend, Jaebeom?”

“No,” Jinyoung replies. It’s not entirely untrue.

“Youngjae’s told me about your music,” Jaebeom says. “We should work together sometime.” The smile he gives Jinyoung isn’t quite as fond as the one he gives Jinyoung; but then again, why should it be? It’s still a kind smile. Friendly. Jinyoung will take what he can get.

Youngjae launches into a detailed summary of Jaebeom’s entire musical career, and Jaebeom blushes and mumbles and plays with their strings.

Jinyoung doesn’t hear them.

All he hears is _scissors._

(Jinyoung wishes desperately that he was Youngjae.)

**Author's Note:**

> originally written in 2016 for the prompt "red string of fate au, person a finds their soulmate in the most heart-wrenching of ways - when person b is looking for scissors." i changed the pairing and lightly reworked some of the writing, but most of it is still very much my old style. i hope y'all enjoyed it nonetheless ^^
> 
> come talk to me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/mianderings) or [cc](http://curiouscat.me/mianderings) ♡


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